


Anchored

by stardropdream



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:23:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2232270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But then Arthur leans up against him and catches his mouth with his and then, quiet, a mumbled embarrassed little whisper, he says, “Come on, <i>Mer</i>lin.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchored

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "rushed sex" which is at least partly filled. It starts and ends that way, but halfway inbetween Merlin gets stubborn, I guess. Anyway, this is basically just shameless porn. There's nothing else to it, but hey, sometimes that's all we want, right? :'|

He and Arthur are having that slow, liquid sex – the kind of sex that’s agonizing if only because when he looks up and sees him watching him back, there’s that painful kind of weight that lodges itself into the pit of his stomach and stays there – that simple, painful weight of longing and of wanting, of desire and relief. His fingers are pressed into Arthur, spread and gentle, working him open until he’s nothing but a pliant, gentle mess beneath him. And so many evenings have been spent in this way – simply moving against each other in a lazy kind of familiarity, looking up at one another and laughing for the sheer weight of their longing and desire, finally pacified, finally nurtured. He strokes into Arthur and Arthur makes a soft, breathless kind of sigh, and it’s the slow, liquid sex that they’re so used to. But then Arthur leans up against him and catches his mouth with his and then, quiet, a mumbled embarrassed little whisper, he says, “Come on, _Mer_ lin.” 

And that’s really all the prompting that Merlin needs. But Arthur was always an overachiever in making his points known – and he brings his hands from the pillow above his head to Merlin’s hips and, before Merlin can say anything, Arthur bucks his hips up hard and fast, pulling Merlin down to meet him, and Merlin gasps and rolls his hips down and the breath rolls out of him in a sharp moan. 

“Is that really what you want?” Merlin murmurs when he recovers from the movement, his words lodged into his throat and stuck somewhere between touching or not touching, between what touching – between never letting go and always holding on. His voice is husky even to his own ears, and he shivers a little because it’s not really a question, but something of a tease because he sees the way Arthur looks up at him, eyes clouded over with desire. Merlin grins down at him, and says, voice teasing, “I think you should be clearer, Sire.” 

“Merlin,” Arthur growls. 

A shiver goes through Merlin at the sound of his name like that – he always does, he can’t help it. He pulls his hand back, pulls back from him and runs his hands over his flanks, down over his thighs, shivering beneath his touch. He smiles, lilting and unapologetic. 

“How do you want it, Sire?” he asks again. 

Arthur doesn’t quite pout, but there’s that same embarrassment to his features that remains even after all this time, and he turns his head, the tips of his ears turning pink – and he doesn’t _have_ to say it for Merlin to know what Arthur wants. He always knows what Arthur wants. 

“Hands and knees, then,” Merlin says, quietly, not teasing now. 

A shiver goes through Arthur, but he obeys as he lifts himself up and gets on all fours. He glances at Merlin and then ducks his head, but not before Merlin catches the small smile, catches the way he stretches out in a way that isn’t purely necessary, lowers himself down onto his elbows, wrists crossed in front of him and curving his spine as he arches. He offers himself to Merlin, freely and completely, and Merlin traces his fingers down along his spine and Arthur raises his head to glance back at him over his shoulder as Merlin kneels down behind him. He arches more, a little more, and spreads his legs as Merlin strokes his hand down his back, over the curve of his arse, his other hand moving to grasp his cock and stroke it a few times before he presses to him and slides into him, hard and fast, the way that Arthur wants it. He starts fucking into him, slow at first but then moving faster when Arthur whines pointedly at the speed. Hands on Arthur’s hips, pulling Arthur back to meet each thrust, hot and slick, Arthur tight around him, moaning and writhing, stretched and strained, head lowered to his wrists as Merlin fucks into him, piston of hips, flurry of breath. 

Arthur’s getting close, just from this, Merlin feels him – feels he’s getting close, diving into the _friction_ , tight and slick and present, the writhing of Arthur’s hips, the gaps of his breath, the arch of his spine. 

“Senseless, Merlin,” Arthur gasps out when he looks over his shoulder, looking at him, hair in his eyes, smile on his lips, looking wrecked just from this, flushed and needy and open to Merlin. “I want it senseless.” 

Letting go of Arthur’s hips, Merlin slides his arm around Arthur’s waist to pull him up, flush against him, and Merlin still hard inside of him. He wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock, and starts stroking him – relentless, smooth and rapid, his hold firm. His other hand presses flat to Arthur’s belly, keeping him in place. Arthur gasps out, breathless and happy moans, leaning back against Merlin – and Merlin supports his weight, has always been able to support his weight no matter what, would support it until his last breath. Arthur leans back into him, turns his head and they’re not kissing but he’s just nuzzling into Merlin’s jaw, and Merlin returns the movement, rubbing his cheek into his hair, sighing out, stroking him off quickly until Arthur’s body is singing beneath his touches – hums and vibrations, shuddering and then he’s crying out as he comes in Merlin’s hand. Merlin squeeze and strokes over his cock, thumb pressing to his cockhead, massaging the come down along the length of his cock, swipes one hand down over his stomach and feels the slickness there. 

He’s still hard inside of Arthur, and Arthur wiggles his hips, tries to coax him into movement, tries to push back more, clench down around him, roll his hips for Merlin. But Merlin holds him still, keeps stroking him until he’s spent, and nuzzles into his neck, waits until Arthur slumps against him fully, and feels his fluttering heartbeat in his pulse point. He kisses it, squeezes around the limping cock in his hand, and strokes it a little to try to coax it back to hardness. 

Arthur laughs, breathless, over-sensitized and rocking his hips a little. “Going to take longer than that, _Mer_ lin.”

“I believe in you, Sire,” Merlin says, gracious and accommodating as he always is, and smiling widely when Arthur turns his head to give him a completely unconvincing glare, too blissed out to seem at all angered. Merlin’s expression softens and he kisses his forehead, one arm curled around him to keep him up, his other hand stroking over him. He’d much rather watch Arthur grow hard under him again, come again and again, before thinking of himself – if only because the slow evolution of his expressions are enough to push Merlin over the edge, most days. His entire body shudders, though, with the force of not just thrusting and rutting into him and seeking his completion. 

But Merlin is insistent, and despite Arthur’s pleas for the fast, hot, slick friction of it all, Merlin slides back into that kind of gentle waiting – he can be patient, all he’s ever been is patient after all these years of waiting – and he strokes Arthur until Arthur does plump up in his hand, thick and hard, and Merlin strokes him again and again, calls him down into wave of pleasure after wave of pleasure, lets it wash over them, crash over them, drawn down into the undertow of ecstasy, the riptide of desire. He waits until Arthur looks as if he is drowning in it, pleasure thicker than air and sustaining him, submerged and learning to breathe and Arthur looks as if he’s lost track of time and of his own body, slumped against Merlin, coaxed from climax to climax, shuddering and supported, feeling every inch of it from hands to palms to fingers, down to his toes, into the coiling, spinning center of him, twisting and turning and going nowhere. He’s held together by Merlin’s supporting arm, held together by come and sweat, from begging and writhing, from gasping and moaning, head lolling sideways against Merlin’s shoulder as another orgasm trips through him and he’s shuddering – and he moans out Merlin’s name, a plea and a command, weakened by desire but thick with his longing. 

And that. Just that can be enough to send Merlin into his own oblivion – just seeing the way his face is lax and open, face flushed, hair matted to his forehead, eyes hazy with his pleasure and writhing – his words nothing more than soft whimpers he’ll deny later, looking up at Merlin as if Merlin were his entire world, narrowed down to one set of eyes, one pair of lips, one smiling, trembling vessel filled only with love and longing and _patience._ And he looks as if he will beg Merlin for mercy, will beg until he can’t speak, and he is so proud and so strong and Merlin never takes for granted that level of trust there, never grows tired of how much of his heart Arthur can give him – to give and give and give and never seem to lose a moment of his heart, never seem to run dry. Merlin’s heart hitches into his throat and he cups Arthur’s cheek and kisses him, gentle and small. 

“Merlin,” Arthur gasps into his mouth, and that’s it for him and Merlin knows it. 

He pulls back from Arthur, finally, and Arthur whimpers with the sudden loss, the sudden emptiness – but Merlin is patient, but only just so. He’s been hard this entire time – however long it’s been, and he hasn’t come, hasn’t allowed himself to, has spent centuries understanding his body and his own means for release and repentance, his own means for denial. 

And he pulls back only to push Arthur down, roll him onto his back, presses down against him, presses into him again and starts rocking hard into him. Arthur gasps out, shuddering, as if every nerve in his body is alive and thrumming, and he arches and he writhes and he grips at Merlin – pulls on his hair, grasps at his shoulders, slides down his back, and Merlin meets him, running his hands over his hips, over his chest, up over his neck and cupping his cheeks, kissing him deeply as he rocks hard into him and, finally, lets himself come – gasping out, wet and broken, into Arthur’s mouth, rocking his hips hard until he’s spent and then collapsing on top of Arthur, who fumbles to curl his arms around him and hold him down against him. 

They kiss – and they kiss – and they don’t stop, don’t stop for anything, don’t stop for breath or for anything. They hold each other and it’s enough, more than enough – it’s all they could have ever wanted, and the heavy weight of love and desire and longing lodges itself between them, weighted, anchored to one another. Never, ever letting go.


End file.
